Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Paul Simon Matthews is born at St Damien’s Hospital to James and Susan Matthews in the middle of a cloudless August day. The sky outside the delivery room seems to pulse with heat and purpose: a solid, endless, unforgiving blue that offers no reprieve from the sun’s rays.

There is a tenuous anxiety beneath the new parents’ joy; the labour itself had been quick, but after Susan’s cries of pain and effort had trailed to a stop a frightening quiet had swept over the delivery room.

The expected piercing yowl of newborn lungs taking their first breath of air did not come- those first few critical seconds had passed before the midwife had fluttered into action, gently but firmly wiping syrupy effluvia from the infant’s delicate skin in an attempt to provoke a reaction.

At the unwelcome sensation of being frantically poked in the mouth and nose, the tiny face had crumpled in discomfort, the slight blue tint of deoxygenation beginning to leave his lips followed shortly by a robust wail. The room echoed with a choral sigh of relief; both mother and child are blissfully alive, alive, alive.

Now, through the baby’s wails, the midwife expertly clamps and cuts the tether of sinew connecting him and his mother, before transferring the squalling infant to her hold. Her son- Paul - kicks and writhes as Susan, disregarding his damp and bloody state, presses his tiny body to her chest. They had decided on names months beforehand; Paul for James’s brother, who had died in childhood, and Simon just because they liked the way it sounded.

His little hands grasp indiscriminately at the air, clammy pink fingers clenching like frightened starfish, but he stills, brow slackening, as the shell of his ear presses against her heart.

This closeness is important for multiple reasons: first, to reaffirm the connection between mother and child severed along with the umbilical cord. Paul’s silence had fired a white-hot lance of fear through Susan’s body, and here she trembles with relief and exhaustion, ghosting her lips along the translucent skin of his temple and whispering breathless praises to God.

Secondly, the contact relaxes and calms the pair, though James Matthews remains tense and stares blankly at the space between his young wife’s shoulder blades. She, in turn, gazes down at their newborn son, whose cries have once again trailed to silence. This time, however, the quiet is expected.

The third reason is to allow the friendly bacteria on Susan’s skin to colonise Paul’s; to build up his immune system and provide greater defence against potential infection that would otherwise wreak havoc on his fragile, helpless body.

Outside, unseen by the occupants of the room, a bluebottle slams headfirst against the glass of the shuttered window, chitin flashing teal in the sunlight. A second fly joins it, then another, and another, until a quivering string of insects bisects the pane of glass, thudding quietly against it with an eerie, mathematical precision, each impact accompanied by the droning buzz of wings displacing air.

The humming grows in volume and ferocity, morphing into something like the rasp of a horsehair bow drawn carefully across the taut strings of a cello. Flies beat against the glass with growing speed and force, uncaring of the damage to their own bodies. Translucent fluid spurts violently from crushed compound eyes and twisted mouthparts.

The orchestra continues to tune their instruments, the sound now permeating the delivery room, if just barely. The midwife turns her head to the window, called by some invisible voice to act.

Without sense or warning, she strides across the room and retracts the blinds in one smooth movement. The flies scatter wildly into the afternoon air as if suddenly released from containment and the midwife stumbles back, the spell broken.

The cool, quiet atmosphere of the room is instantly shattered and Susan yelps in surprise at the flood of light, shielding her face with the hand not supporting Paul. James’s face goes taut with anger as he rounds on the woman, demanding an explanation for her insensitivity, but Susan’s attention remains fully on her son.

Paul’s eyes are fully open - his irises are a startling electric blue, pupils constricted from the glaring light under ash-pale lashes. Susan coos at him, hello, hi there my darling, it’s okay, attempting to soothe any impending distress from the sudden brightness or his father’s raised voice. But, once again, Paul stays silent, looking intently past her and out of the window.

The infant’s gaze seems to hold an unusual focus as he stares through the glass into the searing blue of the sky, as if hearing something millions of miles away.

----

The morning had started off bad and grown stubbornly stranger.

Paul awakes from a vague and sickening nightmare: he can’t remember what had happened in it precisely, only a blinding blue light and a distant song that left a seething feeling writhing in his stomach and a ringing in his ears.

His star-patterned pyjamas are crumpled, the left pant leg bunched up around his shin, unpleasantly clinging to his tacky skin. The boy’s heart flutters wildly against his ribcage… like the frightened moth currently trapped in the bathtub.

He’d run to his parents’ room at the crack of dawn, face slick and red with tears. Papa had groaned in irritation and rolled away but Mama wiped away his tears with a soft handkerchief and suggested he take a bath now before Mass instead of in the evening to remove the yucky sweaty feeling from his body.

Paul is five whole years old; certainly old enough to run his own bath.

He knows exactly how to do it from watching his Mama run his baths: where to turn the knobs for hot and cold so it isn’t too much of either, the spot the bubble bath is kept in the cupboard under the sink and to use a washcloth to turn the knobs if they get stuck. He knows where to put the bathmat down and to wipe down the tub afterwards, because, like Mama says, ‘if the bath isn’t clean, you won’t get clean either’.

Papa says Mama is scared of germs. Mama says “Cleanliness is next to godliness, James.” She won’t buy unpackaged food or fast food or fruit with bruises. She carries little bottles of hand sanitizer everywhere and doesn’t like for Paul to pat dogs and holds him dangling by his armpits over public toilets. Paul observes the feverish intensity with which she scrubs down the kitchen counters and thinks he might be afraid of germs too.

Before Paul’s first day of school, she told him not to play in the sandpit or the garden because animals poop in sandpits and gardens and animal poop can carry diseases. Paul dislikes sand because it gets under his nails, and it is against The Rules to play in flowerbeds anyway, but Papa had scoffed and said she was ‘going to give him a goddamn complex’. Paul had asked what that meant, because ‘complex’ means ‘hard to do’ or ‘with a lot of bits’ and it isn’t a thing you can give somebody. Papa told him to shut the hell up.

Mama often says he’s the most responsible little boy in town. Paul can’t help but agree. All the other boys at school tend to shout and play too rough and throw tantrums, which is when you’re bad on purpose to get something you want (and is also against The Rules).

Mama and Papa say Paul does throw tantrums, but that’s different; Paul doesn’t want anything or mean to be bad when he yells and kicks. It’s just that everything hurts. Someone doesn’t understand what he means, or the lights burn his eyes or a sound slams roughly against his ears, and every single bad feeling inside Paul writhes up and out and explodes.

For example, Sam Sweetly from school throws real tantrums all the time. Last Wednesday it was Paul’s turn to be line leader, but Sam wanted to go first. Paul told him that wasn’t how it worked because it was in roll call order, not just whoever wanted to, and it would be Sam’s turn tomorrow. Sam had yelled, which hurt Paul’s ears, and thrown his pencil case at Paul’s head and punched Mrs Clarice in the legs.

Sam got to be line leader that day and the next. When Paul throws a tantrum, he gets in trouble.  

Paul doesn’t like Sam Sweetly at all, but Sam decided not to like him first. Paul doesn’t know why, but on that very first day at recess while Paul was reading quietly (deliberately avoiding the dreaded sandpit), Sam had yanked the book from his hands and accused him of pretending to be able to read and didn’t believe him and called him a wuss when he’d started to cry. Sam calls Paul nasty names all the time; like cry-baby and stupid and bug-eyes and—

…Right. Okay. Okay. The actual bug in the room frantically beats its delicate wings and scrabbles its legs against the smooth white porcelain with a quiet susurrus.

Paul shakes his head and flaps his hands to help push away his racing thoughts. The strange ringing in his ears worsens. His brain hums like a hive of angry bees; popping candy bursts on the backs of his eyelids, each explosion a dissonant cluster of notes. The boy winces and draws in a quick, shaky breath. He knows when he has headaches like this a bath will make him feel better, it always does, he knows what to do, he knows The Rules- but he has to get this stupid moth out of the way first.

Some sort of gross dusty residue falls from the moth’s body each time it jumps. Paul groans in disgust. He’ll have to wash the tub before he gets in as well. If he can even get in. What to do? Is it hurt somehow? Has it forgotten it can fly? The pressure behind his eyes swells, heartbeat drumming in his ears.

Paul really, really, really doesn’t want to touch it, but he doesn’t want to kill it either. It’s just living its life, and Father Martin says that all of God’s creatures are worthy of respect, no matter how small or germ-ridden.

Paul eyes the creature nervously, peering over the lip of the tub. As his head casts a shadow over its tiny form, it stills and tilts its body upwards to face him, feathery antennae held rigid as iron.

All at once, the ringing in Paul’s head builds to a deafening crescendo. He is no longer standing in the bathroom, but in an endless, impenetrable darkness that shifts near-imperceptibly.

Something colossal has focused its attention on him.

Its eyes are blue giants in hollow sockets, the dizzying brightness of a hundred thousand spotlights bursting in unison.

Phosphenes flash like dying stars in his peripheral vision. Every muscle and nerve in his body is pinned like a butterfly under the gaze of the thing, the insect, the God whose mere presence engulfs the air around him.

Paul can’t move. He can’t breathe.

(HELLO, PAUL.)

Paul screams his throat raw, stumbling backward and landing painfully on the frigid bathroom tile. The boy squeezes his eyes shut and claps his hands over his face, pulling his knees to his chest.

Papa charges into the bathroom, head swivelling wildly around, eyes wide and assessing the scene. Upon realising that Paul is not, in fact, being murdered, his concern gives way to annoyance. “What the fuck are you screaming for?! What is it now?” Wordlessly, Paul points one trembling finger towards the bathtub. Papa crosses the room in two long strides and inspects the basin.

“Jesus Christ, Paul, you’re scared of a goddamn moth?” the man mutters, face tight with contempt.

The boy watches, shaken, as his Papa crushes its paper-light body in a crumpled tissue and drops it into the trashcan with a dull, toneless thud.

Chapter Text

Last summer, Paul had seen the neighbours’ kids huddled around their father’s magnifying glass, burning a glittering line of black ants.

Sunlight converged through the glass and cast a miniature spotlight onto the concrete. One after another, the little creatures placidly followed an invisible trail to their deaths, tiny bodies smoking and withering with a quiet hiss.

The being that had spoken through the moth had radiated the same sheer power.

In that writhing blackness, Paul was the ant burning beneath the glass- acted upon by forces so wildly beyond him, observed by a creature so large and alien that he could not perceive it in its entirety. The only difference was that the ants couldn’t scream.

After Papa had charged into the bathroom and killed the moth, Paul trembles on the frigid tile for a beat, too stunned to move, before the insanity of what he’s just seen hits him full force.

He lurches forward and vomits onto the floor, then curls tightly around himself, hugging his knees to his chest. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut. Bright flashes dart back and forth behind his eyelids- the arc of a locust mid-leap, the glittering spray of white-hot shotgun pellets.

For once, Paul doesn’t flinch as Papa begins to berate him. He can’t stop shaking, can’t focus on the words, can’t catch his breath.

The man’s voice sounds far away, like a distant song breaking through radio static. As he coughs up oily bile (he hasn’t had breakfast yet), tears streaming down his cheeks, the painful cacophony writhing in Paul’s head begins to shift to something else. Confusion mingles with terror.

Where is it coming from? The boy can only listen in horror as, bizarrely, the sound of horns emits from seemingly nowhere at all.

It reverberates down the fine thread of his nerves, buzzes angrily against the fragile membrane of his eardrums. Above it, faint but frantic strings pulse a violent staccato, jarringly out of time with the horns but in perfect sync with his heartbeat- a violin?

No, it’s too low. Viola. In D# minor.

Wait. What? How does he know that? He’s not entirely sure what a viola even is, beyond a violin-type… thing. Mama is teaching him some music stuff on the living room piano, but they haven’t really focused on memorising instruments, and she has other, paying students to teach anyway. Still, the instrument plays on, sounding as bewildered and terrified as Paul feels.

Something wet and warm trickles down the curve of his cheek and across his lips. He shifts a trembling hand out from where it’s pressed between his chest and legs to touch it. His fingertips come away red. He clamps his hands over his ears, but it’s no use.

The song is coming from inside his head.

(falling stars and rage and woe), something hums weakly. Paul screams into his knees, too frightened to look.

What was that what was that what what what

It isn’t the voice of-- of that thing… but it sounds somehow familiar.

It sounds like Papa, but entirely wrong. It echoes and twists and doubles back on itself- not one voice, he realises now, but a chorus, hundreds of the same voice speaking in near-perfect unison. Paper-thin wings beat against his consciousness in fluttering tremolo.

“- fucking useless. You- Are you even fucking listening to me?”

Papa’s voice rushes back into focus with a jolt. The horns are buzzing with frustration- with hate? The boy realises what he’s done; what this looks like to his father.

Idiot. Paul just had to go and break the Rules with yet another stupid tantrum.  He’s woken Mama and Papa up early for nothing, just a stupid dream, and now he’s made a disgusting mess on the floor.

…It wasn’t that stupid, was it? Paul had been trying to take care of the moth and run the bath by himself and then— he doesn’t know what happened then. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him. He doesn’t know what’s happening now.

Tears drip down his face and into the pool of blood and vomit slowly staining the knees of his star-patterned pyjama bottoms. He’s cold and scared and he hurts and he wants his Mama.

(fear not)

Paul startles again, the viola shrieking with alarm. The voices are talking directly to him now.

He glances nervously at the trashcan, tucked away neatly beneath the sink. The fluttering spasms as if in pain. Paul tries to take in a breath and immediately chokes.

His mouth tastes disgusting: bile and stomach acid and copper-sweet blood. He wants to go back to sleep. He wants Mama. He wants to be anywhere but here, but unfortunately, Papa is still waiting on an answer.

A hand cuffs the nape of his neck as if swatting a particularly bothersome fly, large and rough and leathery.

“Look at me!” The invisible brass section flares with anger, humming painfully against his aching ears, and Paul sobs so hard his head swims, gasping for air. He can’t answer, he’s being bad, he’s listening, he wants to be good but he can’t.

The hand reaches under and roughly grabs his chin, painfully jerking his face upward and into the light. His eyes shutter open for a second before slamming shut again, just in time to see his father’s expression contort strangely, blue eyes bugging out, lips curling like frightened pink snails retreating into their shells. “Jesus- fuck! Sue!”

(he shall sing sweeter one day)

The chorus falls silent; the fluttering dies and stills. The thing in the bin, shrouded by crumpled tissue and soft plastic, is now an empty shell. The horns have abruptly transitioned from rage to panicpanicpanic.

“Susan! Fucking hell! He’s bleeding-”

A frantic, dissonant slamming of piano keys shatters the brass and strings. The notes smash against each other, each collision accompanied by a sting of white-hot agony- a shriek of horror.

“Jim? Oh my Lord- Christ, Jim, what happened?!”

Paul sobs hysterically, wordlessly pleading for her to make it stop, make it better, make all the noise go away.

What had happened? What was wrong with him? What had that been, that colossal, hollow face in the blackness?

THEDEVILTHEDEVILTHEDEVIL, Paul thinks, and promptly throws up again.

Mama screams but doesn’t move to hold him. The unseen pianist slams against the keys again, and again, and again.

Chapter Text

Paul is so tired. The past couple of hours had been a terrible, distant blur of fear and discomfort- he vaguely remembers being slumped in the backseat of the car, the world swaying unpleasantly around him-

Then, briefly, the clamour of the outside, the rush of wind and the distant hum of car horns -

then awful horrible bright lights, Mama shouting shouting shouting, strangers in white coats and scrubs swarming around him yelling and touching him and saying things he couldn’t hear over the terrible music-

-then silence as Paul was plunged deep, deep down into that endless blackness; an abyssal cocoon surrounding him. He’d been far too exhausted to even attempt to flee.

It’s so quiet, he’d thought. The relief of silence had outweighed any fear. The void trickled over his skin like ink, unspooling in thick, cold rivulets that caressed his fevered cheek. The tension in his body finally relinquished its terrified grip. Paul closed his eyes in the abyss-

-and opens them again to the starched white sheets of a hospital bed scraping against his skin. He blinks. What-? He tries to sit up, wincing as the fabric rasps uncomfortably around him, but it feels as if his arms are made of paper. Paul resigns himself to lying down, whining with exhausted anxiety.

He gazes blearily around the room- on the wall is a large, peeling sticker of a lime-green dinosaur. Outside the window, the sky is dark and speckled with stars. The space is vacant except for him. Where are Mama and Papa?

The viola is still playing behind his mind, low and quiet, yet steadily growing more anxious along with him. And then- he remembers.

The Devil.

Paul’s breathing begins to come in sharp, shaky huffs. The Devil, for what else could that have been, spoke to him. To him.

It said his name- it knew him, knew his name, knew his face, it hurt and it spoke through the moth and through Paul-

He digs his fingers into his hair, eyes welling with frantic tears. The moth flutters against his ribcage, tearing through the fine tissue of his lungs. The viola shrieks in fear. Paul sniffles- he doesn’t want to see that again, to hear that perfect, awful, beautiful, maddening song-

The song. Does the Devil sing? Paul stares at the dinosaur sticker’s lopsided, empty grin. Mama says that the music teenagers and hooligans listen to belongs to the Devil; Paul’s heard it before, all screechy electric guitars and crashing drums.

In cartoons, the Devil is nearly always red-skinned and humanoid. Sometimes he might have bat wings or goat legs, sometimes he might be a different color.

But the thing Paul had seen in that endless darkness was all …blinding light and shifting swarm and thunderous song. Maybe it wasn’t the Devil after all.

Maybe, Paul realizes, it was God.

God is the one with infinite power. God is a being of light.

Maybe God (if it is God) is too busy to talk to him now. That makes sense; He’s God, after all. He has more important things to do than talk to Paul. Most people do. But why would He talk to him in the first place?

Paul isn’t very special- most people agree. He’s not fun or interesting or good to talk to; he always says the wrong thing, or makes people feel bad by pointing out what they’ve done wrong. He doesn’t mean to be mean, he just wants to be good, to help them, most of the time, but he can’t really figure out how. But if Maybe-God spoke to him, then-

All at once, a terrible possibility strikes Paul. It feels as if something is winding tightly around his head, the viola sinking lower and lower in pitch. His breath stutters in his throat.

What if he ruined it?

God tried to talk to him, and Paul turned away from Him. Oh, no, oh no oh no nonononononononononono. 

Paul turned away from God. 

He was rude to God and he’s a terrible Christian and a horrible person and God hates him now and soon so will everyone else and he’s going to burn in Hell forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and he deserves it.

Paul tightly clamps his hands together with all the force his five-year-old body can muster, feeling the fine bones of his fingers grind together beneath the flesh. “Please, please, please, God, I’m sorry please don’t hate me I’m sorry I was scared O lord please I didn’t mean it I didn’t mean it please—"

(don’t be scared) says Paul’s own voice, doubled over itself innumerable times.

He squeaks. The faceless voices are back- he whips his head around, but no one is there. Strange music echoes through the hall outside; a euphonium, he thinks. Footsteps follow the music past the door then fade away again.

“H-hello?” Paul’s voice is a quiet rasp, eyes flitting about the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, a small movement- a miniscule, gossamer-winged insect alights on the knuckle of his pinkie finger, turning to look directly at him. His hands shake.

(paul hello hello paul hi hello don’t be scared) it titters.

(fear not fear not paul GOD has heard has heard your prayers paul HE has heard you yes)

Paul stares at the creature, trying desperately not to sneeze on it. He rubs his sore, teary eyes.  “Are y-you… angels?”

A gleeful cloud of Paul’s own musical laughter ripples through his head, as if he’s just told the funniest joke the voices have ever heard.

(yes angels yes yes the angel of music yes)

“Wh- why are you laughing?” he mumbles, hunching his shoulders.

Maybe they’ve figured out Paul isn’t the one they want because he said something stupid. Maybe everybody else would have been able to tell they were angels (one angel?) without having to ask.

(because you are oh so clever paul yes so funny)

Paul blinks in surprise. That’s a new one. “I-I’m funny?”

(oh yes yes paul you are very special paul GOD loves you needs you)

“Special? Wh- He… you’re sure He isn’t mad at me?” His eyes well up with tears of relief; he’s probably not going to Hell after all. The angel flutters its wings- the sound like a calloused hand carding through his hair; somehow both comforting and nerve-wracking.

(oh yes HE is not mad at you dearest HE has chosen you HE needs you you are to conduct and the rest shall follow come paul dearest paul WE shall show you yes yes paul yes come come follow US)

Chosen. What a wonderful thought.

With an ethereal weightlessness, the insect takes flight, glittering in the moonlight, and perches on the handle of the door leading outside. Shakily, Paul pulls back the covers and slips out of the tall hospital bed with a grunt. His bare feet hit cold linoleum tile and he shudders, standing on his tiptoes. He quickly pads over to the door with tremulous excitement, the viola humming along. He shakes his head rapidly, trying to get rid of it somehow, but no such luck.

“Is- is this allowed? Won’t the doctors be angry if I-”

(hush and shush now dearest paul come with US dearest)

Paul reaches up and turns the handle, eyes fixed on the insect as it takes off once more, floating through the crack in the door. Still muttering encouragements in Paul’s own voice, it leads the boy down the hallway and to a darkened stairwell.

As he tiptoes through the hospital, faint strains of music drift through the air as he nears each room- each one a single, muted instrument that fades away as quickly as he passes. Weird. He bunches up the scratchy hospital gown in his clammy fingers, holding it away from his legs.

“Excuse me? Mr Angel? I’m really thankful God wants me to do something but, um. What is it? And- and what if I can’t do it, or I do it wrong?!” Paul whispers anxiously, tapping his little fists together.

(don’t worry dearest it is it is simple easy paul WE will show you paul)

“O-okay. Okay. Okay.” The angel leads him out the automatic front doors of the hospital and into the night. It’s dark and cold- the wind whistles through his hair and gown. Paul shivers. “Mama says I’m not supposed to be outside alone at nighttime. ‘Cause bad things happen at night sometimes like robberies or getting murdered or- or kidnapped?”

(don’t be scared paul WE are here WE will show you the way)

Growing increasingly nervous, Paul follows the angel to an overgrown kerb at the side of the road- upon the grass lies the stiff body of a rabbit. It lies on its side, one glassy eye turned heavenwards, the skin around the socket bloated with infectious pustules. He backs away slightly in horror. “Why- why are you showing me this?! I don’t- I don’t like it, I want to go home-!”

(you can fix it you can make it a home paul)

“F-fix it? You- you can’t fix dead things.” Paul whines, teary eyes locked onto the little corpse. Its fur ruffles as the wind blows through it.

(most cannot cannot but you can paul all you must do is sing you can fix it paul dearest yes you can all you all you must do is sing) echoes the voice of the angel.

“Sing-? Wh- how would singing make it alive again?”

It doesn’t make any sense. Singing is just noise- it doesn’t do anything. When something dies, it goes into the ground and rots, and that’s all. Paul knows people sing at funerals, but not to bring back dead people.

(song is breath is life is thought is US paul you will lead the song you will make it alive and alive and alive)

Paul contemplates this. Somehow, he’s “special” and God has chosen him. And he can bring rabbits back to life by singing…?

Mama says he has a beautiful voice- the only beautiful thing about him, in fact. He doesn’t like to sing in front of people that much; he hates the way their heads turn to look at him but their eyes glaze over, as if they’re seeing something bright and far away.

He’s still not sure, but one thing he does know is that questioning the word of God is never good, (he’s learned that lesson many times over, Pastor Charlie screaming heresy at him, Mama washing his mouth out with soap) and so he nods, shivering in the cold.

“Wh-what do I sing?” More tinkling laughter. Paul flinches as the first notes of a song he knows well begin behind his mind, coiling through his cochlea like a snail in its shell. He knows what he must do.

The boy opens his mouth and begins to sing.

Chapter Text

 “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…” His audience draws to a hush, the angels fall silent. The show has begun.

“That saved a wretch like me…” Something fills Paul’s chest; bright and airy and thrumming with power. It rises and pools in his mouth, it burns like communion wine and soothes like milk, coating every syllable of song in hypnotic, divine energy. It’s cold.

“I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see…”

The first stanza leaves his lips, high and smooth and overpowering the stillness of the night. Paul watches the rabbit intently, waiting for any movement or indication of life, of this power the angels say he has, hoping that he can actually save it, that he can actually do something good-

-and then he finds it. The animal’s back paw twitches, the movement strangely fluid. Paul gasps with delight- but keeps singing. It’s incredible- something that can’t be expressed through the spoken word alone. It must be sung, and Paul is the one who must sing it.

(ohyesohyesohyes)

Some small instinct in the back of his mind tells him he has to continue, or all will be for naught. The song continues, as if a spool of thread in his throat is being unwound, pulled though his mouth by some unseen hand.

The rabbit twitches again, and again- and then, with a fluid lurch, a twist of the ribs- it swivels itself upright and crouches on all fours.

Paul gasps again; the song stutters. Something chitters with displeasure in his ear at the error, but the boy is too excited to hear. He’s done it-! He’s actually done it! It looks… it looks… well, it’s just so still.

He stares at it in dismay, but keeps singing. He has to. The wind carries his quiet hymn, ruffling the animal’s fur. He mentally wills it to move, to sniff around, to eat the grass or- something normal rabbits do!

Slowly, gently, almost imperceptibly in the dim light, the puppet bends to its prophet’s ineffable will.

It moves.

The thing that is no longer a rabbit glides toward Paul with a gait like oil on polished marble; a languorous grace that might have seemed natural on a wildcat or fox.

Behind the glassy eyes, swollen with infection, the boy finds no trace of the primal fear it would have carried in life; no vigilant twitch of the ears nor tension of the haunches.

This creature feels no need to flee.

A maggot falls to the grass from the basin of its ear, glistening like a dropped pearl in the fluorescent halo of the streetlight. It doesn’t seem to care anymore.

The angels hum in glee, a soaring chorus of song. (the street is now a chapel is a stage is a pulpit is an inundation of OUR holy flood), they harmonise, and Paul must perform.

The creature moves as if the dead rabbit’s hide had been peeled away and wrapped perfectly around some other animal’s meat- a seamless, skin-tight costume. It is successfully learning the dance- just a few more steps, just a little more, Paul, show it what it needs to do. Show it what it will be.

And then its mouth twists, fragile facial bones grinding together in dead flesh, contorting itself into something a rabbit- a true rabbit- would never have been able to—

-and it sings, harmonizing perfectly along with Paul, who’s frozen in terror, unable to stop. And he’s scared, and he wants Mama, and the song unraveling in his chest is too big and too bright and wonderful and terrible and it’s too much, he can’t do this—

(where are you going---

He cries out in fear, something sharp and ugly and discordant, and the angels hiss and spit with outrage as the song shatters. The rabbit slumps to the pavement- boneless, a puppet with its strings cut.

Its unwilling puppet master takes a shuddering gulp of air, frozen in shock.

(nonononoNO you have ruined it paul you have destroyedshattered the overture ruined it ruinedruinedruined how can you do this to US)

Paul clutches at his hair, his throat, his eyes- a desperate bid to rid himself of the angels flocking and swarming, thrumming along the delicate cord of his vagus nerve, burrowing under his skin, lapping the moisture from his cornea.

The air around his face feels like wet cement- thick and caustic, trying to trap him, to seal him in place. Turned outward, the glassy eye of the crumpled little corpse stares directly into him- a silent, baleful accusation.

Why did you do this, Paul? Why? Why?

He can’t withstand its glare. Shoulders shaking as he gasps for breath, Paul tries to run- his legs buckle under the pressure and he collapses, scraping his knee against the sidewalk. Blood smears on the concrete. He whimpers in pain.

This isn’t what he meant to happen- he only wanted to help the rabbit, but he did something wrong- it wasn’t a rabbit at all. At least, not anymore. Maybe he did it right, technically, but- it wasn’t good.

Paul… Paul just did something wicked, something that went against everything the Bible teaches. He doesn’t remember the right word- but it’s against the Rules, forbidden.

An abomination against God.

(ruinedruinedruinedspitefullittlewretchWEcangiveyouwhatyouwantifonlyyoulisten)

He puts his head in his hands and sobs, his little body trembling with the force of it. His viola rises in panic, trembling right along with him.

He hated it, and Mama and Papa would hate it, and these things singing in his ears can’t be angels at all but demons wanting to turn him to evil, and this God is bad, and He wanted Paul to do his unholy, horrific work, so Paul is bad too, and- and-

Paul screams, and a nearby streetlamp explodes in a shower of broken glass and sparks.

The boy whips his head up and stares at it in alarm, his wide, teary eyes tracking the embers as they fizzle out. The strings snap to an abrupt halt.

(suchpowerifonlyyouwouldjointhedancejointhedance)

Paul doesn’t want to. He shakily stands, unsteady as a newborn foal, and starts to make his way back to the hospital. Perhaps there’s some way to make this go away- some way to fix him.

He doubts it.